


In Dreams

by furysgrace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, I have no idea, i was probably high when i wrote this, twisty ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6523465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furysgrace/pseuds/furysgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah goes to bed in her apartment in California and wakes up in 221b Baker Street. She must be dreaming, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Dreams

“Ugh, _asshole_.”

 

A loud honk sounded from the left and Sarah glanced over to see that someone else had cut in front of a white Toyota Prius. Rolling her eyes, she grumbled under her breath, questioning for the thousandth time why she had thought moving to the Bay Area was a sound idea.

 

The traffic of the Bay was what irked her the most. It seemed that it was in traffic that the Bay and its people showed their true colors: self-centered and very much dog-eat-dog. People drove like mad men in the Bay – although, to be honest, Americans in general drove like mad men.

 

Then again, she remembered, there was a certain level of status to living in the Bay and working in the City. Sure, it meant her commute was shit, and to be honest, her pay wasn’t that great, but at least she could get by. Thousands of others couldn’t, and were living the City by the droves to make room for the new variety of upper-middle and upper class citizens: tech boomers.

 

It wasn’t an overnight change; it had started a few decades ago, before she’d been old enough to comprehend the words “gentrification” and “colonization.” Now, she had resigned herself to the fact that unless drastic actions were taken, nothing would change.

 

In university, she had been somewhat of a neophyte to the whole issue, but very quickly she found people willing to explain to her exactly what was going on. As a foreign student, Sarah’s curiosity had been piqued by the issues that young undergrads faced. What was more surprising was that, at least on her campus, only a minority of students were overly concerned by the state of things. She’d joined them, fought for their causes, and suffered for it. She’d been tear-gassed, assaulted, and arrested in the name of equality and then, after several months’ worth of therapy and panic attacks, she had finally decided that she could no longer emotionally or physically afford it.

 

When she finally arrived home, she checked the clock and sighed as she realized it had taken her more than an hour to get back to her apartment. Traffic had been especially bad today. Shuffling into the kitchen in a pair of house slippers, Sarah uncorked a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass before taking out some leftovers from the previous night and shoving them into the microwave.

 

Her days were often like this: wake up, get caught in traffic, work, more traffic, dinner, work emails and tv, sleep. Repeat. Today was no different. After dinner, she flipped open her laptop and simultaneously began working on answering the plethora of emails – both work-related and personal – while watching an old episode of whatever show was next on her Hulu queue.

 

After a few hours, she readied herself for bed and fell into her pillow, silently wishing that her life would be just a tad more interesting.

 

///

 

When Sarah opened her eyes, her body protested with every ounce of its being. It felt like she’d barely been asleep for more than a few minutes, but somehow she was awake and knew it would take hours to fall asleep again.

 

Then she realized she wasn’t in her own bed. Or her room. In fact, Sarah had _no idea_ where she was.

 

_Fuck_.

 

Pulling back the duvet, Sarah slid off of the bed, her eyes taking in the green and white Victorian wallpaper, the framed Chinese calligraphy, and, amusingly, a framed copy of the periodic table. _Where the hell am I? Whose room is this? Who the hell frames the periodic table?_

 

_Scientist, that’s who_. She answered herself. Glancing down to guarantee she was, in fact, dressed (there had been a number of dreams involving her prancing about with a lack of proper attire), Sarah was relieved to find that she was still wearing the plain black yoga pants and forest green tank top she’d fallen asleep in.

 

She wandered out of the room and into the hall. The bathroom door was wide open; no one was inside. In fact, no one seemed to be home at all – which made sense, considering it was a dream. She found herself in what appeared to be a living room, with equally Victorian wallpaper. On one end was a tatty, yet comfortable-looking, leather sofa. Behind the sofa, someone had spray-painted a smiley face in bright yellow.

 

_What the ever-loving fuck?_

 

Towards the other end of the room was a desk covered in papers and a laptop. Beyond that, two well-worn armchairs were situated in front of the fireplace, as though their occupants spent a great deal of time snuggled within their embraces, enjoying the fire, conversation, or even just silence. The room looked very lived-in.

 

The noise of a door opening and closing, followed by multiple footsteps, told Sarah that there was likely going to be company. As she waited and the footsteps drew closer, her eyes caught on a skull sitting on the mantel. _Shakespeare enthusiast, or morbid Poe admirer?_ She wondered.

There was clearly a conversation already half-done. Something about a murder. It came to a halt as two men stopped in their doorway, staring at Sarah in surprise.

 

The shorter, blonde one gave her a hard stare, while the taller one with dark curls merely took in her appearance and frowned.

 

“Who are _you_?” the blonde one asked brusquely. “And how did you get in?”

 

_Well, this is weird,_ Sarah thought. No dream had ever gone like this. “Uh…I’m Sarah, and I woke up here?”

 

“I think we would have noticed you this morning if that were true,” the man replied, obviously not buying it.

 

_Ah, hell_ , she realized, _Might as well tell them. It’s just a dream._

“Look, all I know is I went to bed last night in my own room, in my own flat, in California. Next thing I know, I’m God knows where in a stranger’s flat and now you two are asking me how I got in.” Hands on her hips, she gave the two men a look that dared them to accuse her of lying. “Do _you_ want to explain how any of this happened? For all I know, you could’ve kidnapped me while I was sleeping.”

 

“I assure you, that is _not_ what happened,” the dark-haired man told her, crossing the room and sitting in one of the worn armchairs. His fingers came to a steeple as he thought deeply about what had happened; the shorter man followed him, but remained standing, staring at Sarah with deep suspicion. After a few moments of silent thought, he spoke again. “You are in London, at 221b Baker Street. My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. John Watson. We did not kidnap you, nor did you sleepwalk here on your own. I regret that I cannot explain your presence here by any logical means, other than that this is some kind of phenomenon unexplainable by contemporary scientific laws.”

 

“That makes sense. I mean, who can explain where people go in their dreams?” Sarah wondered out loud. “Last week, I was rescuing firefighters from a frozen wasteland with my robot sidekick and a talking penguin named Fuzzle. Tonight, I’m in London with two guys I’ve never even heard of.”

 

“What do you mean ‘never even heard of’?” the dark-haired man – Sherlock – asked, as if offended.

 

Sarah put up her hands in defense. “I mean that exactly. I have no idea who you are.”

 

“Hang on – did you say _‘dream_ ’?” Dr. Watson asked, frowning in confusion. “You think this is a dream?”

 

“Of course she does, John,” Sherlock interrupted, as if it were common knowledge what Sarah thought or felt. “Look at the state of her clothes – yoga pants and a tank top? Wherever she was before, she was either exercising or sleeping, and given the distinct lack of sweat or odors, it’s obvious that it was the latter.”

 

“But it’s _not_ ,” John enlightened. “Sherlock and I – _we’re_ real, _you’re_ real – everything _around_ you is real. _Not_ a dream.”

 

“That’s exactly what someone in my dream would say,” Sarah countered, with a small smile. “They’d want me to think that they were real.”

 

John stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Then, turning to Sherlock, he threw his hands up in defeat. “I can’t argue with that.”

 

“Clearly not,” Sherlock agreed, though Sarah thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in his tone. He stood suddenly, buttoning a single button on his suit. Sarah realized belatedly that it was incredibly fitted and likely expensive. “Perhaps she’ll listen to someone with more authority,” Sherlock suggested.

 

John stared at the man in surprise. “You don’t mean…”

 

“I do.”

 

Looking between both men, Sarah was completely lost. “Sorry, what does he mean?”

 

Sighing deeply, John looked at her very seriously. “He means Mycroft. He was supposed to give us a case today at about…” Here, he glanced at his wristwatch. “…Oh, about now-ish.”

 

“O _kay_ …and who’s Mycroft?”

 

John snorted. “Only the biggest git you’ll ever meet. Dangerous and manipulative to the core. Got a bloody stupid power complex. Oh, and he also happens to be Sherlock’s older brother. _Kidnapped_ me the first time I met him. You’re already faring much better.”

 

“Right.” _These people are insane. This dream is insane. When am I going to wake up_?

 

“Right on time, Mycroft. We’ve had an intruder.” He was already here, apparently.

 

“I’m aware,” a voice responded dryly, and immediately Sarah perked up.

 

The voice that had spoken sounded like honey – smooth and charming. As she swiveled around to look at the newcomer, her eyes widened. The voice matched the face – and what a face it was. The man in the doorway was taller than Sherlock, but not by much. They didn’t look anything like one another. Where Sherlock had defined cheek bones and curly dark hair, Mycroft had a longer, pointed nose and was clearly a darker ginger. Sherlock’s eyes were calculating, but his brother’s were icy and intense. Sherlock’s suit and coat were dark and seemed much simpler than his brother’s Savile Row three-piece. 

 

Sarah loved three-piece suits. Or, rather, she loved to take them apart. There was something about a three-piece – perhaps the added waistcoat – that just screamed ‘undress me!’ Add that to the umbrella in one hand, the presence of a pocket watch, and to-die-for dress shoes…. Sarah’s eyes took in Mycroft Holmes calmly, and she hoped no one noticed the way she swallowed nervously when she saw him. She didn’t think Sherlock’s older brother looked like a git in the slightest, but there was definitely room for dangerous and manipulative hiding behind those icy eyes and the calm façade.

 

Ever the gentleman, Mycroft regarded Sarah with a brief smile as he crossed the room and lowered himself into the second armchair. “Ms. Whitlock,” he greeted. “Mycroft Holmes, as I’m sure Dr. Watson has explained.”

 

“Do you know her?” John asked, and it suddenly occurred to Sarah that, of course, John and Sherlock might be surprised that Mycroft knew her name. She, on the other hand, was unsurprised; after all, she knew her name, and Mycroft Holmes was a figment of her dream. Therefore, Mycroft Holmes also knew her name.

 

“Sarafina Whitlock. Your file is relatively empty and, as I’ve been told, did not exist prior to 10AM this morning, when it merely _appeared_ on my assistant’s desk. Strange coincidence that you appear in my brother’s bedroom at the same time, don’t you think?”

 

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Sarah replied evenly, “and I’ll thank you to call me Sarah.”

 

“ _Sarafina_?” John repeated. “ _Really_?”

 

“Don’t even get me started,” Sarah growled. “Look, this is a dream, alright? And I think it’s time for it to end.” She pinched herself hard and waited.

 

And nothing happened.

 

“ _Fuck._ ”

 

“Language, Ms. Whitlock,” Mycroft chided, “Are you quite done with this dream theory of yours?”

 

“Not at all,” Sarah replied, an idea sparking in her mind. She headed into the small kitchen and grabbed the first knife she could find. Grasping the sharp chef’s knife, she turned back toward the living room.

 

John was immediately on his feet, clearly on edge now that she had a weapon. His face had gone from relaxed to tense and humorless. The Holmes brothers, on the other hand, had responded differently. Sherlock had moved to stand near John, watching Sarah carefully and attempting to discern whether she would actually do anything with the knife. Mycroft looked bored and had not moved from his seat at all.

 

“Ms. Whitlock, do put that down,” Mycroft instructed, in a tone that sounded bored. He wasn’t even looking at her. “I doubt anyone feels up to cleaning up after the mess you’ll likely make.”

 

“You can’t die in your dreams,” Sarah persisted. “Therefore, if I nearly die here, I’ll wake up in my bed at home.”

 

“Interesting theory, except for the part where this _isn’t a dream_!” John was clearly stressed out by the situation, which was puzzling to Sarah, because she didn’t think her subconscious would ever make him act that way.

 

“Don’t be melodramatic, Sarah,” Sherlock reproached, ignoring his blonde friend. “It’s childish and unbecoming.”

 

“This whole situation is melodramatic,” Sarah agreed. “And I’m done.”

 

Then she plunged the knife into her stomach.

 

“No!” John cried. He hurried forward and caught her as her knees buckled. Blood was rapidly leaking from the wound.

 

Sherlock was already calling for an ambulance and Mycroft was staring down at the young woman in surprise, a sad sort of furrow on his brow. It was disappointing to see someone who could have been so interesting take such a boring route. He sighed.

 

But then –

 

“ _What the fuck?_ ”

 

Normally, either Sherlock or Mycroft would have chided John on his choice of language, but when their eyes turned to John and Sarah, both men froze. Sarah’s body was steadily fading into nothing, slowly becoming transparent.

 

“See,” Sarah rasped, as she faded, “told you so.” And then she disappeared completely, leaving behind a chef’s knife covered in blood.

 

Sherlock, John, and Mycroft glanced around at one another, unsure what to do next.

 

“Well,” Sherlock considered. “I guess we won’t need that ambulance.”


End file.
